What's in a Memory?
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: (Tumblr Prompt) Twelve forgets everything and Clara needs to take care of her alien friend.


"Who are you?" The Doctor demanded angrily, inching back away from the woman kneeling before him giving him big sad eyes and a sigh, "Where am I?" He growled, glancing about as he pushed himself up on his palms, sitting to give the room a quick once around, "What's going on here?!"

He could feel his hearts pounding in his chest as he considered his lack of knowledge. It was a new feeling, he thought quickly, but he knew that was wrong – he'd felt this before. How did he know he'd felt this before, he asked himself, eyes rounding the glowing bits and the book shelves and the chalk boards filled with nonsense and the silver shiny spacey-ness of his surroundings before they landed back on the other set of eyes in the room.

The set that teetered between concern and frustration.

He pointed at her, shouting, "Stop looking at me in that way – as though I'm some sort of child in need of assistance you're regrettably going to have to give."

The woman clapped her hands over her thighs then, head bowing before she pulled it up to bark right back at him, "You wouldn't need my assistance, Doctor, if you'd simply listen the first time I warn you."

Standing, he looked down at her as she rose and righted herself a few feet away, immediately turning to the console at her side to begin working the controls, muttering something under her breath as he watched. He was intrigued; he'd _always_ been intrigued. Why did he feel that was normal?

Glancing back at him, she nodded, tongue pressed lightly to her top lip before her hand came up and fell back against the metal edging of the machine she worked, "You're the Doctor; this is your home, the Tardis; I'm Clara."

"Good start, yes, but it fails to answer the question of _why_ ," he retorted in frustration.

She smiled then, something that made his hearts fumble for their beats and he scowled in response, angry at them for betraying his annoyance. Clara. Clara annoyed him, he argued. No, he realized, Clara didn't. Clara, he thought, Clara was his friend. Clara was _so much more_ than his friend.

The thought was instant. It was powerful enough to move him a few inches towards her as though the mere thought had gravity – as though she had gravity. "You're Clara," he repeated calmly.

"Yeah," she breathed, "And I am your carer."

"Only that?" He questioned lightly, curiously, hearing the anger melt out of his own voice as he reached to touch the board before him, looking over its colored controls before side-eying her to see her tuck her tongue into the corner of her mouth as she typed, her brow wrinkling vaguely.

Clara was considering the question, he knew. Clara was wondering just what the right answer was. Was there a right answer, he pondered; was there a terrifying answer? He sized her up quickly – about the same age as himself; short in stature; a bit round in places that amused him for reasons he didn't understand.

 _Beautiful_.

The word struck his thoughts in a painful manner and he pushed it aside, trying to find a better way to describe her, because there had to be. A better, _different_ , way. Because Clara was more than beautiful, he knew, looking away.

Clara was a bit like a star, he suddenly thought, before shaking the thought away as he heard her breathe, "Yeah, Doctor, only that."

The answer was sad, he understood. He frowned, turning away because the answer made _him_ sad and he couldn't fathom why. She said she was his carer, but he knew it was more than that. He opened his mouth, his right hand coming up to gesture, but then it fell away as she took several steps away to examine a monitor before working a new set of controls and he glanced around the center tubing.

"You have a way with my home," he teased lightly, trying his best to smile as he tilted to the left, trying to get a better look at her; trying to gauge out what she was thinking. He imagined he did that a lot. Why did he imagine that, he asked himself – why didn't he simply _ask her_.

She was smirking in the space across from him, nodding slowly before meeting his gaze. "A bit my home as well sometimes, I suppose," she finally admitted.

"Well than, Clara, my carer, what happened that's soured you so?" He tried to sound playful, and he saw how it affected her; how it straightened her body and tinted her cheeks and gave her shoulders a little wiggle before they settled. Amused. By him.

He liked that.

She pointed and he reached for a lever, tugging it down when she nodded, realizing in some small way, she was teaching him, or rather, reminding him... _D'you happen to know how to fly this thing_? He could hear the words shout out across his memory and he watched her as she pressed at buttons and then pushed her fingers into a sort of cotton padding, shivering just before the machine lit up and the engines roared. It was a ship, he understood. Tardis.

 _Time and Relative Dimensions in Space._

"You got a nasty shock," she stated, interrupting his thoughts. "Touched two wires together you ought not have," she shrugged and looked up at him, "Said, just before, it might wipe your memory for a little bit – but it'll come back to you; always does."

"Always does," he repeated on a point of his finger, "I take it I touch the two wires together quite a lot."

She smiled again, and he felt his stomach tingle. "Often enough," she told him. "Often enough that we have a protocol." Plucking her hands free from the machine, she poked at a keyboard and then flipped a switch and the Doctor looked to the image of a man that appeared in the space between them at his left and her right.

It was a younger man, a man with a humorous quiff of dark hair over one dainty eyebrow who held his hands together at his stomach and looked to the space in front of him with a sort of embarrassment before he muttered, "If I touch the wires together _again_ and wipe my memory _again_ , I'm to apologize to Clara for not listening and promise _not to do it_ again," a finger came up, "I'm also not to worry because the memories will return and Clara will take care of me until they do." He looked to his left and groaned, "Alright, Clara?" and the Doctor watched as the woman smiled and give the image of that man a tearful nod before the hologram disappeared.

"Regenerated from him," the Doctor sighed, "And no less foolish."

There came a giggle from the other side of the console and the Doctor found himself watching Clara as she touched a knuckle to the edges of each of her eyes as her laughter tapered off. There was something sad about her laughter and he looked to the space where his younger self had stood; he knew she'd been with him and there was something about the fact that balled his hands tightly at the space in front of his chest. Similar to how his former self had.

"I'm sorry, Clara," he told her quietly. "For probably more than just the wires and this," his right hand came up, forefinger twirling twice beside his head and he smiled to her when she shifted just a little bit closer to him. She bowed her head bashfully and then turned to tap at the controls lightly. Through the time Vortex, he knew they were sailing. Time travellers through the universe, he remembered suddenly.

It was coming back in bits and pieces, slowly, and he took a step towards her hesitantly, hands balling again before he forced them apart, right hand landing on the console and his left hanging stiff at his side. He watched her and the way she sighed before she explained, "There's really no need to apologize, Doctor, and yet you do it every time." She chuckled lightly and shook her head, "Foolish old man."

"Perhaps I'm truly sorry," he lamented, and then he bowed his head, "And for more than just this," his hand lifted again to twirl beside his head as he smiled down at her.

Clara, he thought slowly, seeing her face in a million memories sparking to life in his mind. My Clara, he thought as he watched her turn back to the console with that same sad smile and those same sad eyes – worried about him; worried about more than him. Worried about them, perhaps.

"I promise I'll listen next time," he stated softly.

Clara whispered back, "Don't you always."

He laughed, a quick chuckle that gained her attention before he knowingly pulled a lever and hit a set of buttons, remembering it was landing procedure – knowing by the sway of their ship that they were landing – before he released a long sigh. "Memories are funny things," he told her.

"You have funny memories?" She pondered, voice wavering in a way that let him know she was teasing as she continued lightly, "Or are you speaking abstractly?"

On a grin, he nodded to her, "A bit of both, I suppose – you're there quite a lot."

"Am I the funny bit?" Clara asked, her giggle quick and delightful as the Tardis settled down in time and space. Clara didn't wait for his answer, she simply began walking towards the door, calling back, "Remember where we were heading, Doctor, or should I remind you?"

He stated the name of a planet absently, and his eyes trailed after her as Clara reached the door. She turned back to him, watching him curiously as he remained standing still against the console. He knew that look; he remembered that look. It meant a million questions were floating about in that salacious mind of hers, but she was respecting him enough to not ask, nor joke. Not even tease. Clara merely waited for his cue to follow, as she often did.

"Do you remember me yet?" She finally questioned, her tone somewhat worried. Was she worried he would forget her, he thought as she gripped the handle of the door; was she worried he could, he feared as the corners of her mouth drifted down just a millimeter more as she waited in the silence.

The Doctor took a step towards her and he smiled, reaching past her to take hold of the door handle with her to pull it open, feeling the ocean mist tickle his face as he watched the way her hair shifted on the breeze and her radiant smile returned as he told her confidently, "Oh, Clara Oswald, I could never forget you."


End file.
